A Traveling Travesty
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: "We should be a family". A collection of oneshots during year four of the apocalypse. Hopefully we can maintain chronological order here.
1. Fan Club

_Fan Club_

for the prompt: hurt/comfort, wounded ego

* * *

_Salem,_

_March, year four_

"Is it true that you killed a djin all by yourself?"

Conrad blushed, faintly purple around the ears, and looked away from the big eyed chick hovering near his chair. They were sitting, Worth and Conrad, at a bar that served things they could actually drink, on a street in the spookier side of Salem. The prices here were sky high, but they'd made a killing on their last trip into Boston for salvage, and sometimes it was worth it just to have someone else do the procuring and mixing for you. The most exhausting part of being a vampire? Finding food sources the princess wouldn't turn his nose up at. Worth would have been happy to swoop down on some traveler and siphon off a pint, but nooo, that sort of thing wasn't kosher around here.

So they came to the bar while Hanna was out getting pancakes with the dead guy, looking for a peaceful breakfast and a little breathing room (figuratively speaking), and what do you know but suddenly there's this little chit and her giggling buddies crowding around the bar stools.

Worth grimaced, lips peeling back over a couple teeth.

"Uh," Conrad said. "Well, I don't know who told you that—"

"Oh everyone is talking about it!" the chatty one interjected, patting her hands nervously on her jeans. They had dirt stains rubbed so deep into the knees you'd be better off cutting the whole area out than trying to clean it. "The battle in Captain? Last month? Oh, you must be in so many wars I bet it's hard to remember!"

Conrad looked bewildered. "Not… that many?"

The girl bounced, and then she stuck out her hand. "I'm Judy," she said. "Judy Garsburough, these are my friends Nadia and Babs. We are _so_ interested in you? Or, oh, sorry, that—we're interested in your adventures? We've been collecting the updates from the council, we've got some of your letters, where do you find your clothes you always look so fashionable!"

"…What," Conrad said, preening nervously, "these old things?"

Worth sat there, at the bar, fist jammed into cheek as he tapped his nails against the polished wood. Look at that vain little ponce, you kill one measly metaphysical superbeing and you think you're hot shit. Wouldn't catch Worth bragging like that.

The bartender, a hunched scaly motherfucker, passed him another Bloody Manfred before he could shout out an order, a sympathetic look on the protruding snout. _Boyfriends, huh?_ he seemed to say. Maybe he did say—Worth couldn't remember if those things were telepathic or not.

"Well," Conrad was saying, "you know it's mostly a matter of focus but yeah, I guess the senses have gotten a little stronger the last couple years?"

Worth snorted, audibly.

"Excuse you," Conrad said, glaring over his shoulder. "Do you have something to say, _doctor_?"

"Ah, me? Nah, what'd a lowly physician have ter say about it? Ain't like I ever killed me any monsters or anythin'. Good old peaceful doctor, that's me. Hey, why doncha tell 'em about th' time ya got dizzy in the river an' we hadda rescue yer ass from the castle, Princess Peach? Mebbe they'd like ter hear about the time ya—"

Conrad smacked him in the head hard enough to make his jaw ache.

"I don't know why I give him the opening," Conrad muttered, shaking his hand out. "Sorry girls, he's not always this bad."

The girls looked a little bewildered, but they were sharp enough to take advantage of Conrad's preoccupation. They shoved their addresses into his pockets and talked him round to some kind of girls' night out—what the fuck even—and left the bar before the non-human denizens could get too uneasy about daylight children knocking around their private haven.

Worth gave his companion a sour look.

"What?" Conrad demanded.

"Nothin," Worth said. "Hope you 'n yer lady friends are reaaaal happy together."

"they're not—we're not—they're like _twelve_."

"Give it a guess 'round sixteen myself but alright, I ain't here ter kink shame."

"Worth! You—" but then Conrad paused, lips working silently as some new line of thought occurred to him. He turned his narrow gaze back to Worth. "You're _jealous!"_

"Wha, jealous'a you? Don't flatter yerself Princess."

"No no no," Conrad pressed, holding up one firm finger. "You're _totally_ jealous. You big fat hypocrite, you _hate _being bothered by admirers. You should be grateful those girls weren't after _you."_

Worth took a huge swallow of his Bloody Manfred. "Am," he said. "Whadda I need some soppy little punks trailin' after me fer?"

"Yeah. Exactly. Glad you're seeing reason," Conrad replied. His eyes flickered with sharp amusement. "Otherwise someone might just have to leak to them about the time you engineered a fairy death trap all by yourself with fifteen minutes on the clock."

Worth paused with his mouth half way to the mug.

"Would they?" he said, as casually as he could manage.

"Maybe," Conrad said. "Maybe they'd have to tell some people about the time you dismembered a troll that was standing between you and a door you wanted to go through. Or the time you faced down a skinwalker in close combat."

Conrad leaned in close, red eyes lidded and sly. "Maybe," he repeated, and tipped the mug of cocktail back so that he could take a delicate sip. "Luckily," he added, after a moment, "you're not actually jealous, so none of that is necessary."

Then he dropped back into his seat, and he had the audacity to wink.

Worth blinked down at his drink. He had a feeling something important had just happened, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it _was_.


	2. Fear and (Self)Loathing

_"Fear and (Self)Loathing"_

for the prompt: hurt/comfort

* * *

_Oregon_

_May, year four_

The sound of Conrad sucking in air was enough to make Worth turn around. It could mean one of two things: one, the vampire was making a point in a conversation (not fucking likely); two, something had snapped his instincts so hard that his body had forgotten it didn't need to breathe. Worth knew which of the two was more likely.

The two of them had been on a routine perimeter patrol, just like they had been doing off and on for the last week, stationed out here in the boonies. The perimeter ran maybe an acre around a massive warehouse, corrugated iron and a tin roof and rusty hinges, and inside there was something that a particular set of red-hat wearing bastards would give various and sundry limbs to own. What it was—well, apparently that wasn't something Doc Worth had needed to know. What he did know was this: that he old adage that something worth having was worth stealing held just as true these days as it had in the past.

In the last week, on their shifts alone, the two of them had sent multiple small gangs running and slaughtered one bloody minded fey who just didn't know when to quit. Even Worth, who had been pretty pleased to get the assignment, was starting to feel a little worn down around the edges. Conrad, never exactly excited about a fight, was growing decidedly sullen and more than a little vicious.

And then, tonight, _this_ motherfucker had shown up.

It must have been the unseeligh equivalent of a damn Mission Impossible to come around here alone in its shitty cloak and boots, knowing what kinds of defenses they had set up. It had teeth like a buzzsaw when it smiled at them, silvery eyes quietly assessing. It had pulled down its hood, it had drawn a dirk that glittered bronze in the moonlight, and it had gone for the throat.

That was maybe five solid minutes of nasty brawling ago.

Now, Worth pivoted on his heel just in time to see Conrad going down, mouth open in a silent cry between the creature's claws. His eyes were prinprick pupils in panicked swollen irises. Worth dug his feet into the muddy grass and dove after them, pulling some damn stupid move he must have picked up from watching too much pro-wrestling back in the day—his elbow hit first and snapped something delicate sounding, and the creature let out an enraged, inhuman sound.

It let go of Conrad, fingers sparking, and lunged at Worth—but Worth was a newly minted monster himself, with a lifetime of nasty scrapes to make his punches as clever as they were powerful, and he wasn't planning on getting his ass handed to him by some toothy ninja motherfucker. He ducked the lunge.

A glittering claw swiped just the edge of his face, a nail nicking the corner of one brow on the way down. There was a flicker of pain, barely even enough to register, and then a chilling wave of something deep in the bones, like the weight of the heaviest ocean had buried him whole, and he heard an echo that bypassed his ear entirely, scraping right into his gray matter.

It was the sound of a lighter clicking underneath his thumb, and the distant roar of fire.

Worth swung himself upright again and spit out a gelatinous hunk of black, undead blood. "Tom Cruise's lawyer's gonna hear about this, you mark my words."

There was a scramble for the bronze knife that had landed in the grass not too far away, some unholy amalgamation of claws and fists, and then with an almost anticlimactic twist the hilt of the knife was sticking out of the creature's chest.

It shrieked, and it went still.

Worth dusted off his hands. "Well," he said, "nothin' like an asskickin' at three in th' morning ter really wake a bloke up. Not that ya were much help, eh princess—"

He stopped. He took a step back.

Conrad was on the ground, still, but his whole body was heaving with almost perfectly silent sobs, his arms pulled up over the length of his face like a shield.

"Connie?" the doctor said, mouth dry. "Conrad, what's the damage?"

Conrad didn't answer, didn't even seem to notice the question.

Worth swore and slid to his knees beside his partner's shaking body, hands pushing for a better look at the torso. No injuries. Of course not, he'd seen Conrad take a claw through the chest cavity and come out running. He'd seen the guy burnt and beaten to hell and back without so much as a goddamn tear.

There were no injuries on the torso. Nothing on the arms. Legs were clean. Skull was fine, the majority of it he could see with Conrad's arms pulled up like they were. That just left the face, then.

Worth pried the arms away, swallowing a thick trickle of anxiety when Conrad didn't even bother to take a swing at him for doing it. Best as he could, he held both arms down with one hand and took hold of the chin with the other. There were finger shaped bruises down both sides of Conrad's face, but no indication of puncture or fracture underneath. The doctor was at a loss.

"Connie," he hissed, "ya gotta tell me where the damage is, or I can't help ya."

Conrad's eyes clenched tighter, and then Worth realized that he hadn't yet seen what was behind the lids. Could that be the problem? Worth ran a quick calculation of everything he knew about ocular injuries compounded with his still-tenuous understanding of vampire anatomy. It didn't sound good.

"Conrad I need ter see yer eyes," he said, fumbling to get his hand in place to open one up. "Can ya open 'em for me?"

No response. Worth sucked in a long, pointless breath, and peeled the left eye open.

It was whole, uninjured, and terribly unfocused. A shot of something blue raced across the cornea, like electricity curling over the wet surface. Worth snatched his hand back, startled.

"I'm sorry," Conrad moaned, "Sorry, I'm sorry."

The doctor's first instinct was to check his hand for some kind of blue creepy infection, but there was nothing there. What was the apology for, then?

"Ey," he said, "'s fine, I got the bastard. Ya couldn' see it on account'a bein'… whatever ya are, but no worries."

"I'm sorry," Conrad repeated, a pleading note in it now. Quite possibly he hadn't heard a damn word of that.

"Shit," Worth said. He let go of Conrad's hands, planning to go in for a better look at the eyes, but the hands caught him around the wrists in a death grip, and the eyes flew open on their own.

"I'm so sorry," Conrad almost whimpered, "I got you killed and I never even asked you if you wanted to change and—"

"Whoa there, Connie," Worth said, "that was _months _ago. I'm doin' fine, calm the hell down."

Conrad shook his head, wild eyed. "I didn't even think you had feelings for _ages_ and I, I, I'm not nearly—I'm so sorry—"

Bewildered, Worth tried to get his hands free. "Christ," he muttered, "I ain't the right kinda doctor fer this."

"—And I left my mother in England," Conrad carried on, "I just ran, I couldn't even talk to her, I—"

The words poured out of Conrad's mouth, almost unintelligible in places, a muddled sobbing mess of apologies to every damn person under the sun by the sound of it, from the poor son of a bitch's crazy mother right down to some tool he'd accidentally embarrassed in third grade. And then, just when Worth thought he had sort of got a handle on what was going on, Conrad started in on the people he'd killed.

It all came out so quickly, like someone had blown up the hoover dam and left Worth right underneath the onslaught. Regret, he thought faintly, something about regret. Whatever that creature had done to Conrad, that was where the damage was centered.

"Connie," Worth said, grabbing a shoulder, "ya gotta snap out of it. It's just magic, yer just havin' a reaction, ya pro'lly absorbed too much—"

Conrad heaved a heavy, gut wrenching sob and curled into himself.

"Fuck," Worth swore.

Well what now? Poor sod wasn't coming down any time soon, at least not for Worth's admittedly subpar bedside manner. For the first time in ten years, Worth started to regret never having practiced pleasantry under fire. He could try to drag Conrad inside the warehouse, but getting all the locks undone while toting around the princess's substantial ass wasn't going to be easy. He could call for Hanna, but although Hanna would probably know better than him what to do with a full grown sobbing man, ultimately Worth decided against it. Some part of him rebelled at the thought of letting anyone else see this—hell, _he_ didn't even want to see it.

Worth looked down at the vampire sobbing next to his knees, one side of his face streaked with mud and grass stains. He clenched and unclenched his fists, thinking. Hopefully this would wear off in a few minutes. Hopefully, if the unfocused look was anything to go by, Conrad would come up out of this in the forgiving haze of dreamy amnesia.

Worth swore again, for longer this time, and got an arm underneath Conrad's chest. He pulled the damp, shuddering mass into his lap, rearranged his legs, and hooked his arms under Conrad's.

"I'm terrible," Conrad hiccupped, tone vague and factual all at once.

"Tha's just the magic talkin'," Worth said.

"Useless," Conrad muttered, undeterred. "Big fuck—fuckup."

Worth frowned deeper than ever, staring down at the black top of his partner's head. He had this feeling, a faint sense that he should be making shooshing noises and whispering meaningless reassurances, but this wasn't exactly a panic attack and besides, he was pretty sure he'd fuck up any attempt at basic human kindness he tried. He usually did.

So instead, he pulled his arms tighter around Conrad's chest, and he said, "ey, now. Remember the time ya got that skinwalker right in the forehead?"

Conrad made a faint noise of misery, but his nod was the first real sign he'd given that anything was registering with him at all. So Worth kept going. He kept going until his throat was tired and his jeans were soaked, and Conrad was limp and nearly silent against him. He started with the skinwalker and carried on into the Djin, and on and on.

It was much, much later when Worth finally ran out of memories to recount to the shivering man in his arms.


	3. Cassandra

_Cassandra_

for the prompt "Conrad and Worth worrying over Hanna"

* * *

_Alabama_

_June, year four_

Of course, it had to be ghosts.

Hanna's tendency to volunteer for ominous mystery missions hadn't decreased in recent years. If anything, he'd gotten worse—whether that was the guilt talking or just the added idiot confidence of having an entourage, Worth couldn't have said for sure.

So it turned out the thing bumping in the night this time was a ghost. Worth had grabbed Hanna to forcibly drag him out of the house, one way or another, as soon as he'd caught sight of the first blueish flickers. But trying to hold onto Hanna was about as doable as wrestling an eel, and the little monster had twisted loose and kept on running.

"Told him," the doctor muttered, pounding after the fading sound of Hanna's footsteps, "no ghosts. I told him. Five hundred times I told him."

"And you expected anything else?" Conrad replied, keeping pace beside him. One of the great advantages to vampirism—you could run and talk at the same time.

"I thought maybe after the five hundredth!"

"Wishful thinking," Conrad said, darkly. "Did you hear the wailing and moaning in the basement? You couldn't drag _detective Cross_ out of here with a tractor now."

"We're gettin' him a leash fer Christmas, fuckin' Christ."

"I'll look for collars the next time we're in town."

"I'm thinkin' somethin' in pink."

"I'm thinking something in _choke_."

A guttural shriek cut through the darkness, starting at the lowest register and scything up into the highest, with an eerie two-toned echo underneath it.

Worth wished, angrily and powerfully, that it hadn't been _such_ a dark and stormy night. There was nobody up there with Hanna, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, and Worth had started to forget just how much he counted on the dead guy to keep Hanna under control. How impotent he'd been in the days before the two of them had met.

There was some Greek broad a thousand years ago who might've understood what it felt like to scream sense at a man who wouldn't listen no matter how hard you shook him. Nowadays, Worth was on his own.

They found Hanna on the floor of the living room, seizing and pouring sky blue light from his wide eyes.

"What did he _think_ was gonna happen?" Worth snarled, dropping to his knees beside the arching body. He whipped his belt from his hips and shoved the thing between Hanna's teeth. So far the kid hadn't done himself any damage on that front but this was no time to leave things to chance.

"Why _does_ it happen?" Conrad asked.

"Summat about morphic resonance," Worth answered, only half-listening to himself. "Open a door once an' it ain't hard to open it again. Salt."

Conrad dropped down across from Worth and dug around in the pockets of Hanna's raincoat until he found the bag of seasalt. He dropped it into Worth's waiting palm while Worth was patting down his own pockets. Conrad got hold of Hanna's hands and held them, smoothing out the twitching fingers with firm but delicate motions.

Worth found the stitching of the hidden pocket in his coat and ripped it open with mostly-not-shaking fingers. If anyone had wondered why he was so hellbent on keeping the thing, this might have explained it for them. In the secret pocket there were half a dozen orange pills, the remainder of what had once been a bottle's worth.

The doctor wasn't looking forward to the time when these ran out.

Handling salt as a member of the undead legions was a little tricky. It didn't burn like sunlight or iron, but you could get into a hell of a fix if you penned yourself in.

"Shhh," Conrad was whispering, one hand now smoothing the rain-frizzled red hair above Hanna's glowing eyes. "We've got you, hold on."

Worth pursed his lips but said nothing. There was no point in reminding Conrad that he was still here. The extra bedside manner certainly couldn't do any damage.

"Do you think he does this on purpose," Conrad said, without looking up.

Startled, Worth fumbled with the salt-line and had to retrace the wonky bit twice. "Dunno," he managed.

"I think he does," Conrad said. "I think he's trying to talk to it. There's something about him and ghosts…"

Worth made a noncommittal noise. He formed two open lines at the end of the salt line, pointing away from Hanna's head. An exit. Conrad handed him the herbs they'd carried into the house for an exorcism that hadn't had a chance to happen, and he crushed them and placed them strategically across the redhead's twitching chest. It was more difficult than it needed to be, since Worth had to use the same entrance/exit that he'd left for the spirit.

"Vamps were _not_ meant ter perform exorcisms," he muttered.

"Who else has he got?" Conrad asked, faintly, his hands folded in his lap now that Hanna's body was cut off from his reach.

"Ya know the words?" Worth said, in lieu of answer.

The dark haired vampire nodded, licking his lips. "Although my Sumerian accent is terrible apparently."

"Couldn't just use latin like everybody else," Worth grumbled. "Hadda use the three thousand year old dead language. Awright, hop to. I'll keep the body from pullin' somethin'."

Conrad bent his head, eyes closing in concentration, and then the words started. It sounded like nonsense mostly, maybe a little bit like Hebrew. Worth had been to a bar mitzvah once or twice. The great thing about this rite was that it only ran a couple sentences maximum. They'd been told that the original text was a lot longer, but once you cut out all the references to dead gods it shortened up considerably.

Hanna's neck twitched, and Worth steeled his grip on either side of the magician's head.

Light flared up stronger than ever. Something horrible and airy hissed up from the vocal cords; random groups of muscles spasmed. The floorboards creaked, as if some terrible pressure was bearing down on them.

The light flickered, blinding and then black and as empty as an abyssal chasm, as if the sockets themselves had been hollowed out, and then Hanna's own voice waivered to life, panicked and unsteady.

_"No,"_ he moaned, sounds coming out muffled around the belt, "No, not _yet…"_

_"Ferget it_ Hanna," Worth said from between clenched teeth, "Whatever yer up to in there you can wrap it the hell up."

Hanna's hands fluttered, twitched, and then with a terrible power that seemed to come from some impossible reserve of focus, he clutched at Worth's hands and tried to pry them off of his temples. Ragged nails scrabbled, cut into undead skin, left dark crescents that closed up almost instantaneously.

"Nice try," Worth growled. "Connie, finish it."

Conrad, whose eyes were still clenched shut, nodded once and flipped up one hand like a claw. The flesh melted off of it at the fingertips, revealing wickedly pointed spikes of bone, designed for piercing and tearing undead flesh. With one deep, unnecessary breath, Conrad sliced into the pale flesh of his left wrist.

Black droplets, colorless in the darkness, dripped onto the floorboards.

There was a roaring of wind, cold and damp, and the spirit let out a high pitched impossible keening sound as it ripped free of Hanna's corporeal form. Lights blinked out. Muscles stilled. The air swirled angrily in the little channel of salt, a flurry of dust particles, and then dissipated into the stillness of the room.

Below Conrad's rapidly healing arm, brackish black blood smeared wetly across the floor, as if a tongue had swept over it.

A faint sigh escaped Hanna's slack lips.

One eye cracked open, blue irises bright in the darkness—too bright, lit up with the last fading effects of spectral possession.

"…Hey guys?"

It is sufficient to say that if there had no been a salt line in place, Conrad's full-handed slap would have landed loudly against Hanna's face. As it was, the swing rebounded against the salt force field and Conrad let out an enraged howl.

Worth dug into his pocket and silently held up two orange pills.

"Uh," Hanna said. "Thanks?"

Worth dropped the pills and stood up, wobbling slightly as his knees failed to lock properly.

Hanna brushed away the salt line uncertainly. "You're, uh," he said, glancing back at Conrad, whose red eyes were furious and nearly glowing, "You're taking this surprisingly well."

Worth said nothing, gathering up their scattered supplies.

Hanna swallowed. "You're… you're not gonna tell Nergal about this, are you?"

"Oh," Worth said, "you just try 'n stop me."


	4. Waiting Rooms

_Waiting Rooms_

for the prompt: "maybe one of them gets injured or thinks the other is dead or something like that". It didn't turn out all that… direct to the topic but I like it.

* * *

_Missouri,_

_July, year four_

The chairs in the waiting room squeak. They squeak every time Worth shifts—any time he so much as twitches. He's vaguely aware that this would be a thousand times more unbearable if he still had to breathe, but he's not in any kind of mood to be grateful for small mercies. He doesn't want small mercies, he wants the big one.

His hands clench and unclench in his lap, dry and exposed and useless . He's a doctor for christ's sake, he's not supposed to sit in waiting rooms. Putting a doctor in a waiting room is like submerging a vampire in a river full of dead people's blood. It ain't natural.

There's about three main reasons people get into the medical profession: they want money, they want the ability to control a situation, or they have a passion. Worth wasn't about to admit to any kind of passion, but he'd cop to wanting control. When you've got somebody on the table under you, there's nobody else to rely on. No praying to gods, no filing paperwork, no sweet-talking the system—just implacable organic flesh and whatever training you bring to the table.

Sitting here, in a waiting room, hoping to hell that everything goes alright? That's not something Worth knows how to deal with.

An oddly graceful body settles into the seat beside him, the usual suit jacket removed for now. Frankenstein left his gloves on, but the pushed-up neon orange sleeves leave a lot of green flesh exposed. Worth wonders if that's just a dry fact, or if there's some significance behind it. Could be Hanna wanted the jacket for something, whatever it is he's doing right now.

"He's going to be fine," the zombie said, as calm and certain as a mountain. "It's really not more than a flesh wound, all things considered."

Worth grunts. He's aware of the statistical probabilities—they're in his favor—but it doesn't make the waiting any easier.

"If you're worried about his credentials—" the zombie starts, a hint of irony in his dry voice.

"'F I wasn't sure the bastard could manage I'da done it myself," Worth snaps. He tugs a wisp of fur from the cuff of his coat. Hanna had promised that this guy was the real deal and Worth, as he was fond of saying, had never been much of a witch doctor. Conrad ought to be in good hands.

There were a lot of things that you could use to work on injured vampires, apparently, that vampires themselves had trouble handling. It was a bit like chemo, he'd been told, but he'd waved off that metaphor with an irritated grunt. He wasn't here to be patronized.

The waiting room is really a parlor, and the operating room is a bedroom that's been ritually sterilized, somehow, Worth doesn't understand it really, and the walls here hang with seriously fucking unsettling masks. The phalluses on the bookshelves were alright with him, but the masks?

The zombie stands, after a moment, and steps in front of Worth. Worth focuses on his knees, where the black slacks are wearing thin at the bend.

"Stand up," the zombie says, folding his arms over his chest. His gloved hands tuck under and over his dark elbows, and even that little motion manages to be firm but gentle.

"Wot?" Worth says, twisting his head up to look the dead man in his faintly glowing eye.

"Stand up," Frankenstein repeats.

The doctor squints. "…why?"

"I'd like you to punch me," the zombie says.

Worth looks up at him, the green-teal skin and the elegant stitch marks, the blank square jaw and the ridiculously baggy orange shirt—looks him up and down and starts laughing. He laughs hard. He laughs so hard he bends over at the waist and his temple bumps against his knee, and comes up gasping.

The zombie clips him in the jaw and something meaty busts inside the joint.

Worth comes up from his chair swearing.

His first intention is to hold back—he doesn't want to bust a stitch or nothing, god knows how he'd put the guy back together—but the dead man doesn't seem to be pulling any punches and, well, Worth hasn't had much experience playing nice anyhow.

Deadguy McKungfukid kicks him in the chest, and Worth doesn't even know what to do with that, he doesn't think he's ever actually been kicked before, at least not when he wasn't already lying on the floor. They get into a grapple, still standing, knees bent and arms straining, and the zombie _pushes_, and Worth goes down sideways and okay, yeah, fighting on the floor he's good at.

It's different than fighting Conrad. It's a lot like fighting Lamont used to be, except Lamont fought nasty and the dead guy just fights efficient. Also there's a lot less name-calling.

Frankenstein pins him, with some effort, and elbows him square in the face. Cartilage snaps. Worth's eyes water, his nerves scream, and a surprised laugh bubbles up out of his throat. He's split his lip under both fangs. Never mind the previous observations, that was just _meanspirited._

Worth gives up at that point and just laughs, as his nose knits back together and his bruises suck back into his skin like flowers blooming in reverse. The jaw he pops back into place with a wiggle of muscles, and it heals too. The dead guy doesn't have a scratch on him, although his shirt has come unrolled at the sleeves and his hair is a little mussed.

"Can't even believe ya," Worth says, between gasps of laughter. "Damn, man, yer crazier than I thought."

The zombie tilts his head, above Worth, and a slight smile bends his dry lips. "You respond better to violence than comfort."

Worth shrugs. "Got me pegged," he admits, still grinning.

"And pinned," the dead man observes. "The procedure should last another ten minutes by Hanna's estimate. Would you like to try for best two out of three?"

The smile that splits Worth's face is wide enough to worry a doctor, if there was a third one in the house.

"Yer gonna regret that, brother."


End file.
